Classic Poem

Wail, bulbul, if with me Thy heart to friendship fain is:
Afflicted lovers both, Our business to complain is.

Whereas the fragrant breeze From the Friend's browlock wafteth,
Of pods of Tartar musk Mention to make in vain is.

Bring wine, that we may dye Hypocrisy's patched garment;
For, sober though our name, Drunk with conceit our brain is.

The door of penitence They've shut not. Up! Repentance
From loverhood, in time Of roses, sure, insane is.

The bondage of her tress To bear's no dullard's business;
The knowing sharper's wont To fare beneath the chain is.

A hidden charm it is Whence Love, indeed, ariseth,
Whose name nor ruby lip Nor tresses' silken skein is.

True beauty's not in eye Or cheek or mole or ringlet;
To charmerhood great store Of subtleties germane is.

Unto the devotee Of Truth the satin raiment
Of those who're void of worth Not worth one half-a-grain is.

Thy threshold to attain Uneath is; to the heaven
Of lordship the ascent In hardship and in pain is.

I saw in sleep, at dawn, A glimpse of her enjoyment.
O noble dream, than wake Which goodlier amain is!

The Friend's oppression's come To the extreme: I fear me,
Oppression's end the first Of anger and disdain is.

Hafiz, oppress thou not Her heart with thy complaining;
For from oppression peace Eternal to abstain is.